The Confirmation by Ralph Reed

out the duties of his office. It’s a simple majority vote on the floor and I’ve got the votes.” He read Long’s surprised expression. “If the man can’t function, he’s got to go. Simple as that.”
    Long’s face went white. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Why make your guys walk the plank? The Democrats in the Senate will never vote to remove him.”
    â€œMaybe they do, maybe they don’t,” Jimmerson volleyed back. “Either way, I win. If Stanley and Penneymounter keep a vegetable on the Court, they look like fools.” He crossed his legs and opened his hands wide. “How can you defend that?”
    â€œI hear you. But impeachment . . .” Long’s voice trailed off. “That’s risky. Just ask the Republicans who impeached Clinton. That didn’t turn out so well.”
    â€œThis isn’t Clinton dropping his trousers with an intern. It’s Woodrow Wilson,” Jimmerson said. “Franklin is paralyzing an institution of government because he’s unable to function. “ His eyes bore into Long. “The question is: can I get your support?”
    Long threw up his hands as if trying to calm a bucking horse. “Gerry, I can’t go there. I’d burn so many bridges in the Senate I will never be able to get a nominee confirmed.” He crossed his legs and rested his hands in his lap, assuming a thoughtful pose. “But if I can’t help you, I’ll try not to hurt you.”
    Jimmerson nodded slowly. “I appreciate that,” he replied. “But once the shooting starts, no one is going to be able to remain neutral. And that includes you.”
    Long was stunned by the audacity of Jimmerson’s plan. He was beginning to think the man was unhinged. First vowing to block health-care reform and now this? He realized Franklin’s status would not be his alone to resolve. Republicans in the House, led by Jimmerson doing his usual Braveheart routine, were plotting to impeach an eighty-eight-year old stroke victim. If Jimmerson went through with his threat, it would start a constitutional showdown.
    THE HEAD NEUROSURGEON AT George Washington University entered the family waiting room down the hall from the ICU and closed the door. He turned to face the three children of Peter Corbin Franklin and their spouses. His black eyes were hooded, his facial expression solemn, his hands stuck in the pockets of his white coat.
    â€œAs I told Peter Jr., on the phone yesterday, your father suffered a catastrophic brain hemorrhage,” said the surgeon. “The bleeding caused swelling of the brain, compressing both cerebella. The damage is extensive. We controlled the swelling with medication and a stent at the base of the brain, which drains fluid from the brain. So far it’s working. But if the brain continues to swell, it will press down on the stem, affecting motor functions like breathing and circulation.”
    Franklin’s daughter Janet’s eyes filled with tears. “So he can breathe and his heart is beating, but beyond that he’s not there.”
    â€œHe has no cognitive brain function. It is highly unlikely he will regain consciousness. But we want to make him as comfortable as possible and hope for the best.”
    â€œWhat are our options, doctor?” asked Peter Jr.
    â€œYou can wait for an infection to take him or his heart to stop. That could take days, months, or years. Or you can choose to remove his feeding tube.”
    â€œThank you. Can you give us some time alone?” asked Peter Jr.
    â€œOf course.” The surgeon turned and exited the waiting room. The children sat in silence for a moment, absorbing the blow.
    â€œDad’s gone. His body is still here, but he’s not,” said Janet.
    â€œHe wouldn’t want to go on like this,” said her husband.
    Peter Jr. rose from his chair and leaned against the wall. “You didn’t